


Nice and Easy

by bluRaaven



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternative Beginning, Blacktyde Chronicles, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Helgen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2366669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."<br/>Too bad Wulfryk was not in the mood for niceties and he was easy only when trying to get laid. </p><p>Or, 'What if Alduin was late?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice and Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative, headcanon-compatible beginning to 'Before the Storm' with very mild spoilers for future chapters of HT.  
> Those of you who have read BtS; you will recognize a great deal from the original since I tried to keep this story as close to it as I could. In fact, the first half is identical, so feel free to skip past to "You're next."

Wulfryk's head banged against the hard wood of the bench he was lying on as the wagon hit another hole in the road.  Ouch.  He could count the number of holes by the number of bruises that were forming on his temple.  It was hardly his favourite pastime, but there was little else he could do, ever since he had been captured and tossed onto the wagon four days ago, like he was some common criminal.  Which he wasn't.  Most of the time, anyway. 

Wulfryk lay motionless, his eyes closed against the bright sunlight, listening to the creaking of the wheels and cursing the day he had set out on this venture.  A few months ago it had seemed like a great idea. Start anew, build a life.  What on, he wasn't quite sure.  But he had left the hot sands, the azure sea and all those hauntingly beautiful emerald oases of Elsweyr and travelled north, through Cyrodiil and along the border to Hammerfell, steering towards the homeland of his ancestors.  Skyrim.  Although Wulf was a Nord he had never seen the country that his father used to tell him so many stories about.  Maybe they had never been real; the Divines knew his father had liked to indulge in a bottle.  Or half a dozen.  

It had been just him and his father, who had left his birthplace over something he never told Wulf about.  The one time Wulf had been brave enough to ask, his father had already been deep in his cups and he had lashed out at his son, cursing him, only to break down sobbing and begging for forgiveness.  “I'm sorry,” he had wailed, tears and snot running down his face.  “I'm so sorry, my boy, I'm so sorry.  I won't do it again, I promise, it will be alright.  When we go back, everything will be alright.  We will live in a castle again.  I didn't mean to do it, I swear it was a mistake,” he cried before promptly falling asleep.  And that was all Wulf knew about his family history.  

As soon as he had been old enough to travel on his own, he had run, leaving behind his old man and his drunken ramblings and their tiny shack that had smelled like sour ale, stale sweat and vomit.  Wulfryk didn't look back even once.  

He travelled.  He learned to fight so that he could make a living as a sellsword.  One day he was hired as a guard for a caravan of merchants and his journey took him to the far and exotic country of Elsweyr, where he decided to stay on a whim.  He was content there, but never truly happy, an inexplicable desire compelling him to move again and his heart longing after something he could not name.  Leaving his friends and the country he had come to love but could never bring himself to call home had not been easy, but it seemed the decision regarding his departure had been taken from him.  He had become twitchy and irritable, taking long walks under the bright canopy of stars and often staring into the distance, until finally he could stand it no longer and set out once again. 

Only to end up as a prisoner.  It was a cruel joke the gods had played on him and he had laughed at first, hysterically, until both his guards and fellow captives had thrown uneasy looks his way.  

He had crossed the border to Skyrim a fortnight ago and resupplied in a town that he could no longer recall the name of.  The innkeeper had warned him that there were outlaws roaming the woodlands and hills nearby, telling him to not stray off the main road and to find himself some travelling companions, if possible.  So he had been happy when he met a group of fellow travellers headed in the same direction as he was.  Judging by their armour and weapons they were soldiers, or maybe guards, patrolling the southern border.  He did not ask them any questions, seeking only protection in numbers until he was past the territory where the robbers were known to strike, and they in turn agreed for him to join their company.  

For another week the journey stayed uneventful and Wulfryk allowed himself to relax and enjoy the scenery.  In retrospect, he never should have let his guard down.  When the ambush was sprung, he barely managed to pull out his sword, roaring “BANDITS” at the top of his lungs to warn his comrades.  Then the assailants were on them and Wulf did not even have time to notice that, surprisingly, all attackers were wearing Imperial armour before he was forced to fight for his life.  When archers took out one flank and cavalry charged another, the battle was over as quickly as it had begun, and Wulf was one of the few still standing.  They surrendered, and there was a commotion as Wulfryk insistently tried to explain to the Imperial in charge that he really had thought they were being waylaid by robbers.  The Imperials showed complete indifference towards him and, just like the bandits they claimed _not_ to be, they relieved him of all his possessions, bound his hands, and loaded him onto a cart.  

It turned out the outlaws had been the very ones with whom he had sought refuge.  

Their ride did not last long.  By the time everybody had been rounded up, searched, and restrained, it was afternoon.  It turned out the Imperials had planned ahead and secured a shed where they could keep a close eye on the prisoners during the night.  And conveniently, it had another room where the prisoners could be questioned separately.  Wulfryk tried to not show any fear as a guard ushered him through the door, though his knees felt a little weak and his hands shook slightly.  The red-haired legionnaire seated behind a desk was the first Nord he had seen with the Imperials. The other man looked up fleetingly before asking, “What's your name?” 

“Brynjolf,” Wulf answered without hesitating.  Nobody would be able to call him out on the lie, because he had not told his name to anybody.  

“Where do you hail from, Brynjolf?” the man enquired further.  He had a calm manner and he kept his hands on a logbook in a nonthreatening way. 

“Dawnstar,” Wulfryk replied, choosing the only Nord town he could actually name.  

The redheaded man jotted his answer down in his book and even though it was upside-down, Wulf could decipher ‘Brynjolf of Dawnstar’ written out in a neat script.  When he finished writing the man turned his attention back to Wulf.  “I am Thorald of Solitude.  The soldiers tell me you thought we were bandits.  Why?”  

“I thought you were bandits because that's what the innkeeper warned me about.  Back in the neat little town a quarter day's travel from the border.”  All true, that.  

Thorald nodded his understanding before continuing. “Do you have any idea in whose company you were travelling?” 

Wulf sighed.  He did not.  “No. Care to enlighten me?” 

Thorald looked surprised, but he shook his head.  “Regrettably, I can't tell you.  Not yet.”  Instead, he continued his questioning.  

Was it the first time Brynjolf had travelled to Skyrim? – Yes. 

Why did he journey to Skyrim? – To honour the last wish of his dying father.  It was a bit dramatic, but close enough to the truth for Wulfryk to pass it off as such. 

Did he have any living relatives? – No. 

The questions continued in a similar way and by the end of the interview Wulf was fairly certain that he had convinced Thorald that he was not involved in… whatever he was being accused of being involved in. 

Finally the torrent ended, and after he had jotted down the last of ‘Brynjolf's’ answers, Thorald spoke.  “If you are really innocent, then you have nothing to fear from us.  We cannot release you just yet, however, so you will probably travel with us all the way to Helgen.  Your name is not on the lists of the wanted criminals.  I will try to convince the captain to let you go.  Try to get some rest.”  

Wulfryk had gotten his rest; quite a lot of it, in fact.  If Thorald was trying, then he wasn't doing so very hard.  Four days he spent in that bumpy cart and on four nights he had been interrogated, always by somebody new.  And when they asked him about some stormy cloaks he had answered truthfully, that no, he had no fucking idea what they were talking about and quite frankly he did not give a rat's ass; expressing his responses in much nicer terms, of course. 

Today was the fifth day, and in the afternoon they were to arrive at their destination.  Wulf opened his eyes and squinted up at the sky.  It had always been the same driver, the same guards, and the same horse pulling the same cart with the very same four prisoners.  The Imperials were nothing if not predictable.  And yet he had not found an opportunity to escape.  They were just too heavily guarded to risk an attempt.  He had, however, unravelled the knots in the hemp rope that bound his hands, retying them in a way that would allow him to slip off his bonds in a moment.  That was on the first day.  On the second he managed to filch a knife from one of the soldiers on guard duty.  One did not live with Khajiit and not pick up some of their sneaky tricks; lockpicking and a certain sleight of hand were useful in many situations.  But that was as far as he had dared to go.  Hopefully, when they arrived at Helgen an opportune moment would present itself.  Somehow he was not willing to entirely trust Thorald, who had visited him once, apologising for his discomfort. 

All that remained for Wulfryk to do was to lie on the bench, watch the countryside pass by and listen to his fellow convicts talk.  He did not know their names, so he just dubbed them Chatty, Horse and Muffle.  Horse was a thief who looked astonishingly like his namesake and Muffle had not said much around his gag, which suited Wulf just fine, since Chatty did more than enough talking for the four of them.  Right now Chatty was sitting opposite him, while Muffle sat on the far side of the bench to his right side, where he had slid after Wulf had determinedly kept poking him with his foot, so that he could stretch out comfortably.  The man somewhat resembled a caterpillar, wrapped as he was in enough bonds to restrain a bear.  Wulf briefly wondered what he had done that made the Imperials so very nervous.  Not that he did not have other things to worry about. 

Wulf had been headed for Helgen, so while he appreciated a ride and a break from all the walking, he only wished that it weren't on a carriage bound for the executioner's block.  That much he had been able to pick up.  He was certain that Chatty had figured it out already.  Horse seemed oblivious and Wulf amused himself by privately wagering how long it would take the thief to find out.  There was no telling what Muffle thought. 

“Hey, you! You're finally awake.” 

So Chatty had seen him staring up at the sky.  Bollocks.  Wulf had managed to avoid most of their talks, usually by pretending to be asleep, but he doubted he was getting out of this one.  So, instead of trying, he turned his head to smile up at the blond man.  “Morning, Sunshine,” he drawled. 

Chatty seemed happy to have a new victim to pester and continued unfazed. “You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”  

Yes, he knew that. Luckily he did not have to answer, because Horse did.  

“Damn you Stormcloaks!  Skyrim was fine until you came along.  Empire was nice and lazy.” 

It was an argument Wulf had heard dozens of times already, and he allowed his thoughts to drift off, until Horse turned and addressed him. “You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here.  It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”  

Yes, he had figured that one out as well. 

“We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” Chatty threw in. 

They were four men on the carriage, which made Wulf wonder if Chatty was insulting somebody.  “Are you trying to hint at something?” he asked the man, who looked puzzled, so Wulf added “Just wondering who's the lady.”  

The Stormcloak got his meaning and grinned broadly, until a loud thump interrupted them and the Imperial soldier driving the carriage shouted “Shut up back there!” 

“Sorry we forgot about you, honey,” Wulfryk threw back unfazed at the red-faced man. 

Muffle grunted something and then started coughing quite violently, and Wulf realized after a while that the man was laughing, the first time he had seen him react to anything. 

Horse pointed at Muffle and asked “And what's with him, huh?” 

At once, all merriment left Chatty.  “Watch your tongue.  You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King,” he declared rather frostily. 

“Ulfric?  The Jarl of Windhelm?  You're the leader of the rebellion.  But if they've captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?” Horse's voice rose with fear, his eyes frantically roving over their captors. 

There it went.  Four and a half days.  It seemed that Horse was gifted with both the looks and brains of his namesake.  Wulfryk closed his eyes again. 

Chatty's next pronouncement did not help to ease the tension, either. “I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits.” 

“No, this can't be happening.  This isn't happening.” 

“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.” 

“Rorikstead.  I'm from Rorikstead,” said Horse before he started praying frantically. 

Knowing they would never get the thief to shut up Wulf gave up on his nap and glared at Chatty. “My, you know how to cheer them up.” 

“Are you always this morose?” 

“Only when I'm about to be executed,” Wulf responded. 

“Does it happen often?”  A hint of a smile played around the blond Nord’s mouth. 

Wulf answered with a smile of his own.  “I consider once to be too often.” 

The rest of their trip to Helgen passed in silence.  When the carriage clattered over cobblestones instead of the dirt road, Wulf sat up and looked around.  The walls and massive gates of Helgen were lined with Imperial soldiers.  One man in particular stood out, his golden armour shining in the sun.  He looked important, so Wulf turned to Chatty to ask him, “Who is that man?” 

“Who?  Oh, look at him. General Tullius, the military governor.  And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.  Damn elves.  I bet they had something to do with this.”  The Stormcloak turned around to spit at the feet of one of their guards. 

When their wagon finally came to a rumbling stop, Chatty sighed before reaching over and shaking Horse. 

“Why are we stopping?” 

“Why do you think?  End of the line.”  Chatty got up from his seat.  “Let's hurry.  We shouldn't keep the gods waiting.” 

Wulf saw no reason to hurry.  The gods had put him in this predicament, they could damn well wait a little longer; another few decades, if possible. 

The next couple of minutes they stood around while the Imperials called on the various prisoners, confirming what they already knew, namely that none had escaped. 

“Empire loves their damn lists,” Chatty muttered dismally. 

Finally it was Wulf's turn, and a Nord standing next to an Imperial woman and holding a roll of parchment pointed at him.  “Who are you?”  

“Brynjolf of Dawnstar,” Wulfryk answered, as he had done so many times already. 

“You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman.  Captain.  What should we do?  He's not on the list.” 

Before the captain could answer, however, Thorald arrived seemingly out of nowhere to vouch for Wulf's innocence. The Nord felt a slight stirring of hope, but the feeling soured when a heated argument ensued; Thorald and the other soldier, Hadvar, were of the opinion he should be freed, arguing that it was bad luck he had been captured with the Stormcloaks, and that they couldn't randomly execute innocent travellers.  Sadly, the Imperial woman did not share their opinion. 

Then Horse took off, believing that he could make it out while there was a distraction.  He did not make it far before the archers put a stop to his breakout attempt.  The captain was not amused.  Rounding on her men, she yelled “Forget the list!  He goes to the block!”  

What a bitch.  Wulfryk found the Empire's love of _their damn lists_ to be sadly lacking. 

There was a brief pause while General Tullius spoke to Ulfric and a priest of Arkay intoned a prayer – one, Wulf realized with a sudden pang, that was meant for their souls.  Until now he had been able to keep the fear at bay, but he felt it keenly now, emanating from the prisoners all around him.  There was not even the slightest chance of escape.  Wulfryk was no stranger to fighting, but there was something dreadful and mortifying about being led to one's death like a pig for slaughter.  Wulf felt his breath quicken, and he alternately began to shiver and sweat.  

Finally, one of the prisoners snapped: not being able to stand the tension any longer, he barrelled past the guards, interrupting the priest. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!”  

Wulfryk had to admire the Stormcloak soldier for his guts.  He was soon distracted, however, when he felt – or maybe heard something that made his hair stand on end.  A deep rumble resounded across the valley, rolling down from the mountains even as a hot wind picked up.  The air throbbed with energy and as if on cue, all the horses went mad.  The tumult lasted a while. Some riders were thrown, while others struggled to regain control over the beasts.  One soldier brought his mount to a halt not far away from where Wulfryk was standing.  Looking at the animal he could see its eyes were rolled back and wide with terror as it stood frozen, nostrils flared and breathing so hard it rocked back and forth.  Never in his entire life had Wulf seen another being in such mortal fear. 

“What is going on?”  “What's happening?”  The cries were repeated back and forth as the crowd, soldiers and prisoners alike, shuffled around, casting nervous gazes towards the heavens.  Ultimately, General Tullius had to bellow for order before things calmed down.  

“It's nothing.  Carry on!” the military governor commanded, and the first convict, the one who had stormed forward, was led to the block.  The captain went up to the man, kicking him hard to make him kneel in the dirt.  Her general stood only a couple of feet away.  Wulfryk felt his heartbeat pick up speed while he watched the Nord laying his head on the block.  He was not looking at the prisoner, however, nor at the blade of the headsman's axe as it rose slowly, but at the captain, who stood directly behind the prisoner, but did not hold him down.  And when the weapon descended with a sickening thud, she looked right back at Wulfryk, and then pointed at him. 

“You're next.”

Cheers arose from the spectators, along with several cries of "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"You Imperial bastards," a Nord woman shouted back and the villagers jeered.

Ultimately, General Tullius had to bellow for them to settle down before things calmed down enough for the execution to proceed in an orderly manner.

"To the block, prisoner," Hadvar commanded firmly, if sounding mildly apologetic. "Nice and easy."

Wulfryk felt his throat go dry as he swallowed convulsively and made his way to the block on leaden legs, while two soldiers dragged away the headless corpse that a few seconds ago had been a living, breathing man.  Don't resist.  Don't give them any reason to doubt you.  The archers would turn him into a pincushion same as they had Horse if he were to try anything right now he thought, even as a pair of rough hands grabbed him and a sharp kick made his knees buckle.  His cheek was pressed into the sticky, still warm blood of his predecessor and its scent flooded his nose.  He saw the henchman's blade rise slowly, as it had done already; and then the pressure lifted off his back. 

Too bad Wulfryk was not in the mood for niceties and he was easy only when trying to get laid.

That very moment Wulfryk felt a calm settle over him that came from utter abandonment of hope.  He would die today.  He would die, but first he would take as many of those arrogant bastards with him as possible.  Starting with the Captain, who had just made the biggest mistake of her life.  She did not hold him down as she had not done before, too assured that he had already been defeated.  If he was going down, then so was she and maybe he could take General Tullius hostage.  The Military Governor was standing only a couple of feet away, too close by far to pull out his sword in time.  

Imperials were nothing, if not predictable. 

Wulfryk calmly disposed of his bonds, hands hidden between his thighs, as he dug his toes into the earth and his fingers clenching around the hilt of his stolen knife.  His entire body was tense with anticipation.  As the headsman's axe reached its peak, a heartbeat before it swung town to tear through his flesh and bones, he made his move.  At once he leaped backwards, spinning around before he could even fully right himself and then his knife bit into flesh, slicing open the Captain's neck and spraying him with more blood.

The Imperial woman went down, clutching at her severed artery before she knew what had happened and Wulf tossed one fireball at the elves he had seen before and another one at the band of archers. He did not stand still long enough to watch them get roasted, already moving for Tullius.

Even if the Thalmor remained unharmed, their horses would not and he saw one Mer with a foot caught in the stirrup dragged behind her panicked mount. Nobody moved to help them; the archers dead and the rest of the soldiers stuck dumb, their mouths agape.

Wulfryk held the tip of his knife to Tullius' eye; and backed up until his back hit the stone wall of the keep.

He kept his legs away and the smaller man pressed close enough that the Imperial could not smash the back of his head into his face. Tullius had reached for his gladius, but Wulfryk's hand atop his stopped him. He rid the Militry Governor of his sword next. Wulf had to chuckle despite the situation; he usually unbuckled belts under different circumstances.

All eyes were on them and though the Nord generally enjoyed being the centre of attention, today he wanted nothing more than to get away as far and fast as possible. Captain Bitch was twitching her last not a foot away from where the first prisoner had died, a few remaining archers on top of the wall held arrows trailed on them, but none drew their bows.

The first man to hit the General would probably end up nailed to the main gates.

Before Wulf could draw breath to make any demands, Muffle stepped forward and pulled down the cloth that had been covering the lower half of his face.

_FUS RO DAH_

The rest of the archers went flying, lifted by an invisible force, and screamed as they plummeted to their messy deaths on the hard cobblestones twenty feet below.

Wulf was not sure what he had witnessed, a man… _shouting_ …magic.

"They are not coming," the Jarl sighed almost in disappointment, before bellowing, "To arms!" in a voice that had to carry halfway back to the Imperial City.

Chatty charged the executioner, bowling the other man over and one of his comrades picked up the axe and clove the nearest Legionnaire almost in half. At once, all the soldiers sprang into action and screams and the clang of weapons rang out.

The Stormcloaks were still hopelessly outnumbered, but apparently very motivated to make it into Sovngarde with style.

And Wulf was cursing like a Waterfront sailor on a dry spell because in the chaos that followed he and Tullius, who gave his captor a funny look out of the corners of his eyes for swearing in perfect, if rather vulgar Colovian, were completely, utterly forgotten and Wulfryk's chances at negotiating his way out evaporated.

Should he just kill the General and run or hold on to the man?

The Nord warrior was soon distracted however, when he felt – or maybe heard something that made his hair stand on end.  A deep rumble resounded across the valley, rolling down from the mountains even as a hot wind picked up.  The air throbbed with energy and the villagers who had up till now stood gawking at the spectacle like it was a play put up extra for their entertainment, scattered with panicked shrieks.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Then Tullius twitched and hollered, "What in Oblivion is _that_!?"

It was the oldest trick in the book and yet Wulf looked. And wished he hadn't.

He felt his body battered by a force so powerful, he and his hostage both were thrown to the ground and landed in an ungraceful heap they had to disentangle themselves from. Wulf's head and back collided with the hard ground as his vision went white from the jarring impact.  For the merest fraction of a second his eyes connected with those of the Tullius and the Imperial saw his death reflected in their blue depths, even as a more rational part of his brain took in the knife clenched in one of the – former – prisoner's hands. 

The General lunged for his sword that was lying on the ground not far away.

Wulf kicked him in the jaw, sending the other man sprawling again.

And just when neither man thought his day could get any worse, they simultaneously beheld as the dragon descended from the skies, a gale following in its wake, to perch on the highest tower of Helgen's fortress.  

There was a dragon.  A bloody _dragon_.  And Wulf felt his mind shutting down; his only thought that it was funny that his father had forgotten to mention that tiny detail in all of his tales of the Land of Wonders, Skyrim. 

The monstrous beast opened its jaws wide and roared a deafening sound that for a second stopped Wulf’s heart in its tracks, before it resumed its stuttering beat.  It might be a sign of how hard he had hit his head, but Wulfryk could swear he discerned a fell voice that carried on the dragon's foul breath.  

It felt like an eternity as he lay there, staring up, but suddenly he felt somebody shaking him.  It was Chatty, who had run up to him and helped him to his feet, even as Wulf's ears rang and the world around him spun.  They made their way towards the nearest shelter, a guard tower, and Wulf stumbled over the headsman's corpse.

He saw the Military Governor scrambling in the opposite direction and into the keep, sword still on the ground, discarded and forgotten.

Once inside the tower, Chatty immediately pulled the door shut behind them and leaned against it, hands braced on his knees.  He straightened after a brief while and addressed somebody to his left. “Can the legends be true?”

"Legends don't burn down villages," a deep voice answered him from the shadows, the tone bitter enough to verge on sarcastic.

Wulf discover it belonged to Muffle.  Who had gotten rid of his bonds, Wulf could see, now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior of the tower.  As had his soldiers which struck the Nord as odd; for a bunch of defeated captives the rebels sure were well organized.  And bristling with weapons. How-?

"What do we do now?," a woman asked breathlessly. She was kneeling next to a wounded comrade, pressing a bloody rag to his chest.

"First we need to see what the situation out there is," Chatty answered and looked towards their leader.

Ulfric Stormcloak nodded in approval of the man's statement. "You are familiar with Helgen, Ralof, are you not?"

"Yes, my Jarl."

"Let's find out then. Up the stairs, quickly!"

So Chatty's name was Ralof, Wulf thought as the blond Stormcloak ran past him, followed by his infamous leader. Wulf just pretended to belong and extended one hand towards the stairway. "After you."

Ulfric jogged up after Ralof just as the dragon chose that very moment to bring down a part of the tower and to stick its hideous head through the opening.  Peekaboo!  It opened its jaws once more, but this time a jet of flame shot out, so hot it melted stone and incinerated the soldiers hiding further up.  

Where he stood a story lower, Wulfryk felt like he was being roasted alive, the hot air painful to breathe in and perhaps it truly was an indication that he was losing his wits, but amidst the shrieks of the dying he had _heard_ the dragon speak.  The words were unknown to him, the ancient language grating and discordant, bringing to mind the rasping of scales on stone.  

 _"Hi gral nii pah; liivor ko Oblivion, hi vriilus firok!"_ the Jarl roared in answer and, wrenching Ralof's axe from the stunned Stormcloak's hand, he threw it at the monster, hitting it somewhere in the vicinity of its eye.

The dragon reared back its head with a bellow of pain and rage and pushed off the tower, rocking the whole structure.

"Never mind." Ulfric Stormcloak grabbed his fellow soldier by the collar and dragged him back down. "We take the front gates. Come on, before the dragon brings down the whole tower!"

Two Stormcloaks grabbed their wounded comrade and helped him to his feet while Wulf and Chatty – _Ralof_ – cautiously checked the skies before stepping outside, though they could not see much through the smoke that was obscuring nearly all sight.  Wulf pressed his sleeve against his mouth, trying to breath in as little of the acrid vapours as possible and, without any better plan, followed the rebels. Ralof seemed to know where he was going.

The walls gave them an illusion of cover and they hurried along until something caught Wulf's eye. Though the horses hitched to them were no longer alive, a few of the carts were still exactly where the Imperials had parked them. Wulf broke away and ran back and grabbed the battered old leather pack that he would recognize anywhere. As if the Gods had wanted him to have it, it was lying right on top of all the others and he had to thank the Legion's meticulousness that his other possessions, his armour, sword and shield were neatly bundled up next to it, tied together with a thin cord. The warrior sliced the rope, threw on his shirt of mail over the rags his clothes had turned into during his imprisonment, grabbed the pack and the rest and was sprinting across open space after the others.

A violent tremor shook the town not long after and when he chanced a look back, he saw the tower they had hidden in a moment before and a better part of the wall and gatehouse collapse with a shower of stones and a billowing cloud of dust.

The Stormcloaks took a sharp turn to the right while the Nord dove for the safety of a wall when he heard the telltale thump of wings.  When he looked up, the dragon was settled on the wall he was pressing himself against; Wulf could have tickled its belly if he so desired.  Which he absolutely did not.  At last the beast took flight again, the pressure from its enormous wings driving Wulf to his knees.  He risked a glimpse from behind his hiding place, only to make out that the southern gates had been closed and the rebels appeared to be trying to get them open again.

Wulfryk wanted to brain the idiot who had first thought of barring the gates, hemming in soldiers and civilians alike and turning the town into a death trap.  It was not like they would keep their opponent out, the damn fire-breathing lizard was _airborne_ and it would go where it pleased.  

The warrior checked that the dragon was busy in another part of town before he dashed over through a crowd of panic-stricken people who were milling around, screaming even as they were frantically running to and fro, searching for escape.  Most of the town's wooden structures were on fire by now.  Several soldiers had their bows trailed on the dragon, but to little avail, as the beast swooped down to saw destruction before flying out of reach again. 

“Somebody's sealed the gates shut," Ralof shouted when the bar would not bulge an inch under the combined force of several soldiers trying to dislodge it. "The bloody elves... Jarl Ulfric- "

"Step aside," the Jarl commanded and his soldiers scattered just as Wulf arrived.

_BEX DAH FUS_

The gates were a good three inches of solid oak reinforced with steel and they blew apart like a sandcastle under a kick. Deaf from the blast, with his heard hammering in his throat Wulf followed the blond leader. At least the way out was clear now and if any Imperials thought of stopping them he'd rather be with the guy whose voice could turn them into mincemeat – and made Wulfryk's knees weak.

"Where is Thorald?" an injured soldier shouted, hopping along as he hung on his comrades' shoulders and turning in their grasp. "I saw him a moment ago- "

"I think he went into the keep," a brunette woman wheezed, holding her side.

"We cannot go back now," the Jarl pointed out reasonably.

"Look!" Ralof yelled and pointed ahead. "Imperial horselines!"

The horses stood huddled together and shaking between the trees.  Most of the animals still bore full tack – the cavalrymen had probably left their horses here before they went to watch the executions in Helgen.  Many were injured from trying to tear themselves away when the dragon attacked. The soldiers quickly chose the fittest. Wulf got a black mount, smaller than Skyrim's own huge, lumbering beasts and undoubtedly a cross between the native animals and the lighter, faster and more agile Imperial horses.

"Rightfully stolen," Wulfryk stated with a snort and a nervous look back, but Helgen had all but disappeared behind a veil of black plumes of smoke.

"You are forgetting a Jarl's right to pardon his citizens' crimes," Ulfric Stormcloak replied. He was stroking the nose of a white mare, the poor horse's eyes rolled back in its head, when a shout made him turn.

"General!"

Out of the dust and smoke a soldier appeared, coughing and wiping at his stinging eyes. The man skidded to a sudden stop when faced with a dozen Stormcloaks.

"Oh, _shit_!"

Wulf recognized him as Hadvar before a rebel took an arm each and twisted, forcing the Legionnaire to his knees and disarming him. When the brunette put up a fight, he received a fist to the face and Wulf could hear the crunch of his nose breaking, saw blood trickle down the soldier's clean shaven face.

The man gasped, but though he ceased his struggling, he glared up defiantly at Ulfric Stormcloak who rubbed his bearded chin in thought.

"Let him go," the Jarl ordered and swung himself into the saddle, his men following suit. He rode a circle around the Legionnaire and commanded, "Report this to Rikke, soldier!"

Hadvar cast a look back, hesitating.

_"Now."_

The Legionnaire snapped back to life, nodded and climbed atop a brown animal one of the Stormcloaks handed him, dabbing with his sleeve at the blood on his lips.

Wulf then cut the high line that kept the horses tethered on an impulse and wished the Imperials good luck in rounding up all the fleeing horses and catching up to them.

He mounted up as well and then they rode as hard as they could until their horses were covered in sweat and foaming at the mouth. Only then did they slow down to a walk, though by then Hadvar was no longer with them. Behind, a dark column of smoke was still rising from what once used to be Helgen. Wulf shuddered and kept looking ahead- and up.

They did not stop for the rest of the day, alternating between riding and walking their horses.

"Too bad the elves got away," Ralof sighed after hours in silence. He was walking in front with Stormcloak, their mounts trailing after them on long reins and with their heads down, snorting. "But with any luck that dragon has rid us of Tullius!"

"May it choke on the Colovian son of a snowtroll," Ulfric added solemnly. "But let us not get our hopes up; luck has not been our strong point until now."

"True." The blond Stormcloak still managed a cheerful tone when he announced, "That did not go like we planned."

"Indeed." The Jarl looked thoughtful as he cast a glance back. "For a dragon to come to Tullius' aid just in time... I wonder if the damned elves had anything to do with it."

Wulf scratched at his cheek where the blood of the beheaded soldier and the Captain had dried and begun to pull at his skin and tickle as it peeled off in flakes of rusty brown.  It felt disconcertingly familiar; his warpaint had been like that once.  He tried not to think about it, to ignore the burning brand of memories of a past he had left behind long ago and muttered, "Everybody knows the Empire sucks Thalmor cock."

He should know. He had spent most of his life in Cyrodiil and was no stranger to the latter. Never with Thalmor though. Divines, he had standards!

"I like you," Chatty decided on the spot with a broad grin.

Ulfric Stormcloak though had stopped and turned around abruptly to face the Nord warrior, forcing him to halt as well. "I almost forgot. This is for all that kicking of yours." His punch knocked Wulf flat on his ass before the warrior had the smallest chance to react in any way.

Wulf pressed his palm to the swelling bruise and looked up to see Ulfric rubbing his split knuckles with a frown. "Damn it, man, what is your face made of? Iron?"

"Handsome," Wulf replied, astonished when the blond warrior extended an arm to help him get up.

"This is for providing a distraction." The Jarl pulled the other Nord to his feet and clapped him on the back, the action raising a puff of dust. "What is your name?"

"Wulfryk," Wulf introduced himself. "It - kind of - rhymes with Ulfric."

To give the Jarl credit he only blinked at the reply. They had found a few bottles of mead in the saddlebags and were passing those around. Wulf drank deeply when he was handed a bottle and handed it on to Ulfric to finish.

"You have seen the true face of the empire today," he said after swallowing and the words rang with the grave sincerity of a speech well rehearsed and ofttimes repeated. "I wish we could have kept a hold on Tullius, but with that dragon we were lucky to escape with our lives."

The Jarl's sea-green eyes were haunted and Wulf had the distinctive feeling the man was looking at past events, not really seeing him. His offer was an opportunity the dark-haired Nord could not afford to reject.

"Will you join me in Windhelm? We could use a man like you."

Chatty turned to grin at Wulf who shrugged and answered with a tentative smile with his own.

"Sure." It wasn't like Wulf had anything better to do, now that he had committed a capital offence that would get him back to the executioner's block in half of the country he had arrived in a scarce two weeks ago. For a guy who had supposedly murdered the king and was usurping his throne Ulfric Stormcloak appeared alright. He sure knew how to pack a punch.

"I've always had a soft spot for blondes."

**Author's Note:**

> In headcanon, Colovian is the High Cyrodilic dialect spoken in the Imperial City.
> 
> Dovahzul translation: "You ruined it all! Rot in Oblivion, you scaly bastard!"


End file.
